literature

RHG - Sinkhole versus Jorka

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The night was sultry and its sheer darkness festered upon Sinkhole's fear like a cyst of unease.  Shadows, blacker than black should be, reached glibly from countless sources, making what had been ordinary hours ago sinister.  A chill wind blew, too, on this fateful night of All Hallow's Eve.  

Otis Clifton, a stocky southerner masquerading under the alias of Sinkhole, couldn't image what had possessed the proprietors of that infamous league 'Rock Hard Gladiators' to give him an assignment tonight.  From his hometown of Dog Hill, people and the newest frightening innovations were few and far between.  Instead, the rustic townsfolk had relied on ghost stories.  And for the moment, every terror-filled tale Sinkhole could remember took place on a night like this one.

Ah, his assignment.  Information was annoyingly scarce, an unpleasant boding for a new fighter.  All that had been supplied to Sinkhole was his foe's name, and a few words describing his talents.  The enemy for this evening was magnum-wielding 'Jorka'.  Paper in hand, Sinkhole wandered the rickety wooden town in search of the hitman, who was promised to be nearby.  Leaves had foregone their trees and skittered across the ground in clusters, brown and dank yellow in death.  What few houses could be discerned in the few lamplights looked ancient, and nothing could be seen within them.  Wait—there!  Sinkhole swore to himself that he saw movement in the top floor of a house.  Cold crept over him, a greater cold than the autumn could impart; the chill of terror.

Too scared and wildly alert to pay attention to where his stiff feet led him, Sinkhole found himself in a field of dirt and stones.  Tombstones.  A cemetery.  “Purfect,” he chattered.  It did not help his nerves to find that there were merrily burning lanterns scattered randomly throughout the graveyard, this appallingly cold, spooky, haven for the departed.  It was a place shunned by the living, a land for the dead and those whose spirits were wracked by the deaths.  Sinkhole decided that he couldn't stand another moment in the bloodcurdling place, and turned hurriedly to go.

“Ill at ease?”  Sinkhole yelped and fell backwards, scooting away from the man standing before him.  Why, why was there a man here?  Why a man with violet eyes and a malevolent smile?  Picking himself up from the musty ground, Sinkhole cast a wild eye over him.  He wore an eerily spotless white shirt, a tough black cloak, and casual jeans.  So out-of-place here in the cemetery, but then again, so was Sinkhole.  His pitch hair stood up, spiky, and an equally stiff tapered nub of a beard went with it.  And those inhuman eyes.  He was muscular, this man, but not quite as much as Sinkhole.  Having gained confidence, Sinkhole replied.  “Ye done near kilt me, sneakin' up on a poor feller like that in the middle o' the night.  If ye don't mind, I'll jus' be on my way.”  The interloper's smile widened ever-so-slightly, and Sinkhole didn't notice.  

Jorka, for it was he, raised a hand and wagged a finger back and forth.  “Ah, ah, ah.  It looks like I've a quarrel with you, and I've never to date let a target get away.”  Without further ado, he darted forward.  Taken by surprise, Sinkhole could do little more than raise his arms to protect his head.  The first blow, a knife-strike meant to crush the redneck's temple, fell harmlessly against Sinkhole's thick arms.  A second strike, slower but more sure than the first, flew to his chest and the block moved with it.  Jorka feinted, throwing up a knee, and a hand moved to parry it.  Otis' night exploded into color as the hitman  came in with a left cross, hitting Sinkhole's jaw squarely.  He backed off speedily, furious that he let himself be hit in such a vulnerable position so soon.  This man, Sinkhole decided, was Jorka.  He hadn't yet pulled out the guns that the paper (Now lying crumpled near a rotting bouquet of flowers) had mentioned; that sat perfectly well with him.  Unlocked power was seeping slowly into Sinkhole's being, and he needed more.  Time for round two.

Now it was Sinkhole's turn.  He leaped forward, pulling off a devastating thrust kick when he was close enough.  As if he was mocking him, Jorka let it slip right past, and clutched the southerner's leg.  Sinkhole began to topple over, but followed through with a quick, one-two punch.  His weight, off-balance, carried him forward and both punches connected to Jorka's chest.  A hearty shove and the two were apart again, for a moment.  So far, neither had used anything but their limbs and their strength.  Jorka seemed to acknowledge this, and judged that it was time to get serious.  In a flash, Akero and Diablo were in their master's hands.  The darkness and inconsistent lantern-light made it a trial to aim where previously it had been difficult to see properly.  Sinkhole hadn't yet seen the handguns, but he knew instantly Diablo's ear-shattering bang.  He dived behind a thick grave, throwing a handful of green-tinged fluid electricity at the same time.  “Oh, please,” sneered Jorka.

A few disinterested blasts and the tombstone that Sinkhole had taken refuge behind was a pile of rubble, its epitaph forever lost.  He knew that Jorka could kill him now with a single shot, but seemed to want to prolong the battle; perhaps the assassin was enjoying it.  Jorka trotted forward, still in his expert's pistolero stance, and brandished the now-apparent glistening bayonet-like weapons attached to each gun.  A flash and a deceptively quiet bang from Akero; he had fired!  But not at Sinkhole--at the ground beneath him.  In a spray of wet brown dirt the explosion sent the redneck skyward, and slammed back down with dizzying force.  

Too angry and energized to be kept down, Sinkhole scrambled up and cannoned into Jorka.  A stinging blade slipped into Sinkhole's hide, drawing a line of blood.  He kicked again, and the foot connected powerfully with his foe's upper leg.  Jorka punched, avenging his bruised thigh, and with fervor Sinkhole's backhand stalled it, turned to seize it, and pulled the hitman in like a fisherman lands his bounty.  “Hoo-rah!”  Heaving himself, he dealt a stupefying uppercut to the flawless white shirt.  Jorka bellowed, sparked flying from his eyes.  The sudden fire surprised Sinkhole -“Gyah!?”- and he was driven, head first, into an elaborate marble headstone.  “Ah, ha!  I have you now!”  Thrice his head was beaten against the marble sadistically, until the pain became insurmountable and Sinkhole, barely conscious, chose to end it.

A burst of liquid electricity knocked Jorka back as the redneck activated his power.  Renewed energy surged through Sinkhole, and the agonizing injury to his head became less important.  Even though he was empowered, Jorka would still put up a good fight.  Casting aside his earlier notions, the hitman opened fire.  Sinkhole acted in a panic, spawning mini-vortexes from his hands.  They were not active long enough to suck up the bullets, but they threw them off course.  The graveyard was bombarded by these strays.  Weathered tombstones were ripped apart like Styrofoam and dirt billowed into the air, where it began to block the full moon's light.

“Yer in a world o' hurt!”  A wobbling, circular beam (About the diameter of a  hubcap) was projected, it danced past Jorka's guard and latched on to his body.  Jorka was yanked around like a yoyo and thrown into the air, though he managed to right himself as the grapple-beam died.  Sinkhole wasn't given a second to rest; the assassin was in his face, kicking and slashing.  After a few frenzied seconds, Sinkhole's hands were scarred and bleeding from the handguns' blades.  A slice towards Sinkhole's eye was blocked, accidentally, by his arm.  Seizing the chance, the southerner took hold of Jorka's arm in both hands, swung a leg to trip him, and punched him when he fell.  To follow up, he tried to smash his enemy's head into the loam with a stomp, but Jorka rolled free and, in turn, felled Sinkhole.  As the hitman stood over him, Sinkhole realized that Jorka was blushing strange amber color.  

Horrified, he realized that it was Jorka's skin, hardening into spines and ridges.  Rather than the impersonal, slightly contemptuous glare that Sinkhole had previously perceived, Jorka's eyes looked increasingly insane.  And violet.  Milky white teeth became crooked fangs, and hair turned white and sprouted quadruple horns.  He didn't idly wait out his transformation, though; he set to pulverizing the man pinned on the ground. After taking hit after hit from the morphing assassin, Sinkhole managed to work himself into a crouching position.  A flash, a couple expanding circles of energy, and the two gladiators stood at opposite ends of the graveyard.  A rough track in the soft dirt showed where Sinkhole had desperately forced himself and whatever Jorka had become apart.

“A neat trick, derelict, but it won't save you!”  Jorka extended his palms, and a hissing sound accompanied by a whiff of growing flame came from two large pores.  Afflicted with terror and panic, Sinkhole changed into a vortex as pillars of flame erupted from Jorka's clawed hands and whooshed into the maelstrom of green-tinged energy.  The blast of flame was dissipated, but Sinkhole became human once more.  “Crap, craaap!”  He moaned as he sank to his knees.  Palms still out and ready to fire, Jorka walked almost casually to his victim.  “Ah, hah hah hah!  This game is over!”  His wings beat in nefarious glee.  Though it was true, unbeknownst to Sinkhole, that Jorka could control his demonic transformation, something about the cemetery on Halloween loosened his grip.  In a foolhardy act, Sinkhole sprang from the ground, and after a very brief tussle he was back in the dirt and Jorka-demon stood over him, again.  The almost-defeated man pushed up an inch from the soil and spat some blood before turning to look up.  Jorka stood, smiling devilishly and his head cocked, silhouetted by the Halloween moon.  

The scene was too much for Sinkhole.  With a yell he released a second and final grapple-beam that spiraled away to grab a huge, ancient granite headstone.  Galvanized into action,  Jorka started spouting a liquid flame from his hands.  Sinkhole's fading strength wasn't enough to lift the headstone, and his last resort was doomed.  Becoming a vortex wasn't an option, and even the beam was vanishing.  Regretfully, he realized the way he needed to win.

Streams of hellfire spewed onto Sinkhole's laggard body.  Soon his skin had vanished beneath the burns and the ash, and on his stomach especially Sinkhole felt the pain.  But as he was consumed by flame, the lingering grapple-beam became stronger, until it heaved the great headstone from its resting place into Jorka's incredulous, inhuman face.  

The weight of the thing carried Jorka into the ground, and sank him into the soft loam.  As inaccurate as the toss had been, it didn't crush him, but buried him just beneath the surface.  In this unreal reversal, he went berserk, and managed to rend the headstone apart with his arm-blades.  Before the hitman-turned-monster fell unconscious, Sinkhole was dimly aware that he became human again.  “I...am sorry.”  In defeat, Jorka had regained control from whatever in the Halloween night had released the demon within him.  He would be well enough by morning, and would likely wake with a splitting headache to partially dig himself up and stagger to a hospital.  And Sinkhole?  He was already on his way there, limping alone with unimaginable burns and scars.  “What a night...”

Behind him, in the desecrated cemetery, the shattered headstone lay silently as the tumult of the haunted night continued about it.  Its largest piece, by purest coincidence, bore the name of the individual that came by such an ornate and aged memorial.

The name was Solomon Grundy.
Written by: Yours truly
Original publication date: 10/28/2011

The RHG Organization (Rock Hard Gladiator) was a website several years ago dedicated to Adobe Flash users who specialized in making amazing stick figure fights.  My younger self was infatuated with the myriad characters and incredible action, and when an opportunity arose for writers to do their own spin-off series, I jumped at the bit.  My character was Sinkhole, a rough-and-ready brawler from the American south.  Being familiar with my gallery, you might know him by another name--Locus.  The RHG series is the tale of Locus before the Writer's Ordeal, of his life in the grueling arena.  Consider it also to be a remnant of my past and an insight into an earlier era of writing for me.

And no, the Writer's Ordeal is not on hiatus.  Production takes some time now given my schedule.
© 2014 - 2024 MisterMiener
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TheGuardianTempest's avatar
Ooh, and the wRHG is still alive in SP. Unless of course, you've already been there.